


Just Reach Out and Take Me Already

by SalazarTipton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1 times, Fluff and Angst, Hale fire feels, Hurt Stiles, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Pack Feels, Sick Character, Steter Week 2018, Touch-Starved, pack bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-16 09:12:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15433770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalazarTipton/pseuds/SalazarTipton
Summary: Stiles grunts on the table, turning his face towards him. His eyes remain shut, but relief floods through Peter along with something completely new. He feels a tug in his chest and smiles. Stiles is returning the pull on their bond.Stiles can feel him too.akaThe Five Times Peter Seeks Out Touch + The One Time He Doesn't Have To





	1. The Fives Times Peter Seeks Out Touch

 

Coming back from the dead has had its drawbacks. Peter knew to expect some of them, but others he hadn’t accounted for. Getting back in speaking terms with Derek has gone better than he thought, but they’ll never be close again. He’s known they wouldn’t be close again since Derek gained his beta blues, to be fair. Even though Derek accepted him back into the pack because of his usefulness, he still doesn’t feel like pack. 

 

The bonds are there, faint but existent. What’s really missing is the physical connection. Peter watches as Scott hugs Stiles, snuggles up with his lover-of-the-week, Derek is a little firm handed as he shoves some of the betas to their positions during training, but still lets them get close enough to brush up against him when they settle in for meetings or movie nights. No one gets within touching distance of Peter. He doesn’t blame them after all he did (and still hasn’t apologized for), but that doesn’t make him feel any more accepted. 

 

That’s not entirely true. One person in the pack isn’t as repulsed by him as the others: Stiles. Sure, he’s always running his mouth about Peter’s “creeperwolf” ways, but when it comes down to it, he’s beside Peter as they run through research, watching the battlefield, peaceably chopping vegetables for the pack dinners right at each other’s side. He’s always closer than anyone else, but even Stiles won’t touch him. 

 

He could be above the baser need for physical connection with his packmates, Peter tries to convince himself. None of them trust him--and the feeling is mutual. He doesn’t need their touch, or anyone’s for that matter. Peter’s used to being on his own. Even back when he was his sister’s beta, the family skirted around him not wanting to taint their own claws with the things he did to protect them, some even felt they were above him. 

 

No matter. Peter doesn’t need bonds. He’s gone through so much of his life alone. His new life won’t be any harder. It takes a few months before he realizes how wrong he is. 

 

“Can you please stop that?” Peter asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _ Your leg, Stiles!”  _

 

Stiles jumps and his bouncing legs stops long enough for him to look sheepishly over at him. “Sorry for having ADD and being stuck here with you figuring out this bullshit instead of at home where my meds live,” he huff's back, motioning to the stack of books between them. 

 

In less than five minutes Stiles leg is jackhammering at the floor again. Peter reaches over and grabs it hard. Stiles stills. 

 

Then his other leg starts. To Peter’s surprise, no sign of fear is coming off of Stiles. His heart rate jumped when he first grabbed him, but that’s just natural. It evens out quickly. Peter’s tilts his head at him more intrigued at Stiles’ comfort level than upset about his idle ticks. Peter loosens his grip, but doesn’t remove his hand. 

 

Even though a thick pair of jeans are separating their skin, Peter feels a gentle pluck of pack bond with Stiles. It’s faint, almost unnoticeable; if he wasn’t so accustomed to the lonely silence, it wouldn’t have even registered. 

 

“May I help you?”

 

Peter mulls it over before committing. “I can think of many ways you could help me, Stiles. I wouldn’t offer your service so quickly, if I were you.”

 

Now that made Stiles’ heart jump. He shook his head and went back to his book, firminly ignoring Peter’s  _ everything.  _ He wants to push, to trip Stiles over his edge of tolerance and get a reaction, but lets his hand fall, returning to the musty book in front of him with a niggling feeling in the back of his mind. 

 

He doesn’t make Peter move. After a few minutes, Stiles shifts a little closer to Peter in his chair. He rubs a few little circles in his thigh muscle with his thumb, the motion thrumming through them both. His newly discovered, faint bond starts glowing a little brighter. 

 

* * *

 

“You just have a secret vault underneath the freaking school and you never thought to mention anything? Do you know how many times I could have used a fortified vault here? Hmm?” Stiles asks with a wide swing of his arms after descending the stairs down into the dark room. 

 

Peter flicks on the lights so Stiles can fully appreciate his eye roll and disinterest on his face. 

 

“What reason could I possibly have to tell you about this before now?” he retorts. A small smirk forms on his lips while he watches Stiles try to think up an answer. His eyes flick down to watch with lips purse and smooth out with the flow of his thoughts. 

 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, turning away from Peter in favor of examining one of the shelves behind him. Peter’s smirk grows wider once his back is facing him. 

 

He gets back to the task at hand, walking through the stacks back to the filing cabinet he needs. His focus shifts to the papers, but in his chest he can feel the bond shift from side to side as Stiles peruses the vault. Since the bond’s made itself known to Peter, he’s come to realize just how little Stiles stay still. The energy thrumming through him (whether it’s his ADD or the magic he doesn’t think Stiles has come to terms with yet under his skin, Peter doesn’t know) keeps him also in motion. 

 

“Here,” Peter says as he pulls the file they’ve been looking for out from the back of the drawer. 

 

Stiles comes over to him, rubbing his hands against his thighs in nervous energy. He plucks the papers out of Peter’s hands and start skimming them. Neither of them notice how close they are as they eagerly pour over the text, seeking out some useful information. Stiles’ eyes flit up to see Peter’s face is mere inches from his. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, gaining Peter’s attention. 

 

He takes a step back, nearly toppling over a table. Peter easily wrap an arm around his waist to steady him. The papers from the file slip out of Stiles’ hand and flutter down to the dusty floor. The instant Peter’s fingers accidently slip under the back of Stiles tee shirt, a jolt jumps through their bond. Stiles eyes go wide and a gasp shudders out of his chest. 

 

“What the…” Stiles whispers. He swallows and stares at Peter with his lungs heaving in the musky air that’s turned heavy between them. 

 

“Pack bond,” Peter answers simply, trying to hide the flood of emotions and cry of his wolf at finally  _ feeling pack _ after so long alone. 

 

Stiles nods his head a little too rapidly and lets his shaking hands rest on Peter’s arms. “Right. We’re, uh, we’re pack. Just never felt any kinda--ya know?” His breath fans out over Peter’s face, warm and familiar. Peter tilts his head. He’s never noticed that they’re the same height. 

 

He doesn’t want to let go of Stiles and give up the feeling of his hands kneading at his biceps, but they can’t exactly stand here forever. They’re under some time limitations. Peter clears his throat. 

 

“If I let you go, do you promise you won’t fall on the table of artifacts behind you?” he asks in a whisper, tightening his grip for a split second to take in as much of this contact as he can manage. 

 

He watches Stiles’ throat bob when he swallows. Stiles’ fingers curl a little more into Peter’s skin before releasing their grip. Peter lets him pull away, regrettably letting his hand fall from the smooth expanse of his lower pack in the process. One of Stiles’ hands trails down his arm as they separate, but he tries not to think about it. Dwelling on every little touch will, without a doubt, drive him back to insanity.   
  


* * *

 

Hanging around with broken teenagers and young adults would be draining on anyone, Peter rationalizes. Another pack bonding night means another night he wishes he could be at home getting some work done or reading or  _ really anything _ aside from listening to their collective drama. He’s not an omega, but with how little attention the pack pays him, he might as well be--well, aside from Stiles, of course. 

 

Over the past few months since they saved the day together with the information from the vault, Stiles has been so chummy it’s concerning. He opens up conversation with Peter about seemingly unimportant things--personal things. 

 

_ “What kind of movies do you like? I’d peg you for a, like, neo-noir kinda guy. All aesthetic and dramatic masculinity through a modern lense or some shit like that.”  _ Peter had stared him down, a little dumbfounded. He’s always known Stiles is the most observant out of the bunch, but how the hell had he known that much about him? 

 

He settles himself on the sofa while everyone grabs their pizza, waiting for his turn. He’s tuned out what they’re talking about. Something about chemistry class, maybe? Pack nights before the fire used to fill him with the thrum of love and life, pack bonds shimmering throughout the jokes and board games and roughhousing. 

 

Here in the loft, it feels like he’s still lost in his head, stuck in bed unmoving without any pack left, up until Stiles flops down beside him on the couch. He drops a plate with three slices of italian meat lovers on Peter’s lap and tucks his feet under himself, using his knees as a table without saying a word. 

 

“Scotty, I already put in the DVD so just turn on the TV,” Stiles says around a disgusting mouthful of pineapple pizza. 

 

Peter nearly spits out his first bite when the title screen for  _ Sin City  _ comes up, all broad lines and blood red accents. He slowly turns to Stiles, eyes wider than normal in an attempt to convey his surprise without looking too affected in front of the others. Stiles meets his gaze and gives a small shrug. 

 

“You like noir; I like comics. Besides, who doesn’t like a weird, fucked up story with their pizza?” 

 

He could kiss him right now. Peter wants to lean over and press his lips to Stiles’ temple--the little space between his hairline and his eye that probably tastes salty and would feel smooth against his mouth.  It would be so easy to lean over the foot or so and just feel his warmth. Peter gives him small smile and shakes his head. 

 

The movie plays, the pizza is demolished, and everyone aside from Peter, Stiles, and Kira are baffled by what’s happening on the screen. Peter nudges Stiles with his knee in small thanks for giving him this little thing. Stiles can see through Peter’s tough guy bullshit and it should terrify him. Stiles knocks his knee back in response, settling more comfortably on the couch. 

 

Peter lifts up a hand without thinking and brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck. The touch pulses through him, and from Stiles little bounce in his seat, he feels it too. 

 

* * *

 

One of Peter’s objectives in his life is to experience as many things as he can manage--interesting things, that is. He’s felt the strength of Alpha power flow through him, manipulated and bent dozens of people to his will without their realization, and has come back from the dead: all titillating experiences. The mundane hasn’t held much interest for him. He’s never had the patience for it, he supposes. Back when he had a home and a pack, the boring, daily aspects of life weren’t  _ so terrible _ . Maybe his ability to handle them burned to ash along with his family. 

 

He slides open the loft door searching for when exactly the simple things like pack nights gained some interest to him. His answer is tucked under a pile of blankets on the couch with a river of tissues following from him to the coffee table. Stiles doesn’t sit up to greet him. He favors huffing out a groan. 

 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Peter asks, shutting the door and making his way over to him. 

 

“Tell that to my cold,” Stiles says, sinuses so clogged his words sound muffled and heavy. Peter tries not to smile at the sound. 

 

He rounds the couch and nudges the tissues on the floor out of his way, sneering at them. “Why would you come all the way here if you’re really that sick and not just stay in your own home?”

 

Stiles glares at him and coughs. It reverberates in his chest, sounding painful. Maybe he’s worse than he looks… Peter hasn’t dealt with human colds much in his life aside from the few times one of the humans in the old Hale pack grew ill and he avoided them as to not be roped into assisting in any way. 

 

“If I’m home, one, I’ll get my dad sick. Then he’ll have to miss work--which he won’t; he’ll just go in anyway and then get himself hurt. And two, if I’m here, I can at least take advantage of the PS4 Derek so kindly purchased for the pack. Nathan Drake is waiting for my help to find some serious treasure, right now,” Stiles rambles on, motioning to the pause screen on the TV. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to get any of you sick. Consider me your reminder to appreciate your super immune systems.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and leaves Stiles to his game. He grabs the waste basket from near the desk against the far wall to pick up all the germ-infested tissues. He can feel Stiles watching him as he goes about tidying. He finishes quickly and makes a point of setting the bin beside Stiles and moving the tissue box closer to him. 

 

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles mumbles, acting as if he’s fully focused on his game. 

 

Peter rounds the couch again, bringing himself to stand above Stiles’ head that’s nestled in an uncomfortable-looking array of throw cushions. He presses the back of his hand against Stiles’ forehead causing his patient to jump and hit a wrong button. Someone on the game screams as he falls to his death. His clammy skin is far too much to the touch. 

 

“Just checking to see if you have a fever,” Peter explains easily with a light tone. “Have you taken anything?” 

 

Stiles shakes his head slowly under his palm. He looks ready to say something, but Peter doesn’t give him the chance. His hand slips off his face, fingers brushing his unkempt hair back into place. He heads off to find where Derek keeps the medical supplies, hoping his nephew is smart enough to keep some type of fever reducer onhand. 

 

He returns to the main space a few minutes later with two pills and a fresh glass of water for Stiles only to find he’s fallen asleep with the controller still in his hands. While he’s sound asleep, his position looks anything but comfortable. Peter sets the medicine down on the coffee table and heads upstairs for some proper pillows. 

 

“Stiles,” Peter whispers. 

 

He shifts in his sleep towards Peter, but doesn’t open his eyes. Peter listens for his heart beat--still slow and steady. He lets out a sigh and carefully cradles Stiles’ head under one hand while pulling away the crumpled cushions that were supporting it. 

 

Stiles does a full body stretch into Peter’s touch ending in a light sigh. Peter’s breath catches when his hand finds Peter’s arm, curling around his wrist. He listens again, but his heart is the same, supposedly fast asleep. Peter swallows hard and considers his options. 

 

He wants to help Stiles. It’s probably the pack bond, he tries to tell himself although he knows it’s a lie. 

 

Peter slides into the space where the cushions were, helping Stiles’ head settle on his thigh. He melts into his lap. The hand that’s holding his wrist loosely moves to rest over Peter’s knee. His weight is grounding Peter in place, helping him fight the lightheadedness of being so close with Stiles while he’s so vulnerable and trusting. He knew Peter was here, but still fell asleep within minutes. 

 

The single tangible pack bond in Peter’s chest bolsters as he takes in the moles littering Stiles’ relaxed face, following their trail until they disappear under the neck of his shirt. Peter plucks the controller out of Stiles’ other hand to pause the game. He wouldn’t forgive Peter so easily for letting his game run on unsaved. 

 

* * *

 

The blood drips from Peter’s claws, down his fingers, and into the sleeve of his henley. Carrying Stiles’ away from the fight isn’t a decision, it’s a reaction. Peter can’t have him there--especially not hurt. He should have known Stiles wouldn’t keep his word to his dad about staying out of things when the claws come out, Peter berates himself as he sprints through the warehouse with Stiles unconscious in his arms. 

 

He can’t think about the pack fighting behind him and all the ways it could be going wrong. His mind solely focuses in on getting Stiles to Deaton. The hospital, or at least Melissa would be great options if it were for the acrid scent of the creatures’ poison surrounding Stiles right now. Peter can’t let his thoughts follow along the trail of what this could lead to. Stiles will be okay. He has to be. 

 

Peter shifts Stiles’ in his arms enough to get his phone out of his pocket as he waits for cars to pass on the road between him and the animal clinic. He’s cursing Beacon Hills athletic programs for having games this late, creating more traffic than a town this size warrants. Carrying a limb body across a main thoroughfare is a fine way to get Stiles’ father involved in the situation much earlier than the guy would life, if he had any say in the matter. 

 

“Dr. Deaton, who’s calling?”

 

“Stiles got hit. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Peter bites out before ending the call. He has no patience for the vet on most days let alone now. 

 

By the time they get across the road and into the clinic, the gate is swung open and a table in the exam room cleared with first aid products and a vial of a green, gelatinous substance that had cured the poisoning Isaac had experienced at the beginning of the week when these  _ things _ had first appeared. Peter lays Stiles down on the table, gently cradling his head to set it lightly on the cool metal. 

 

Peter starts ripping the remains of Stiles’ flannel and tee shirt away to better see the tear in his side. From his experience, it looks mostly superficial, at worst some muscle damage. He stutters out a breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding in. Taking him here was the right call. 

 

Deaton storms in with gloved hands and more supplies. Peter moves to the other side of the table to give him room to work, but doesn’t move more than an inch away from Stiles. He picks up his hand, intertwining their fingers. He closes his eyes and focuses on Stiles’ languid heart, beating far too slowly compared to his normal, rabbit rate. 

 

He refuses to let himself panic. He pulls against their pack bond with a gentle tug. It  _ thwangs _ between them in a solid hum. Peter leans in, cupping Stiles’ face with the hand that isn’t squeezing against Stiles’ twitching fingers.

  
Stiles grunts on the table, turning his face towards him. His eyes remain shut, but relief floods through Peter along with something completely new. He feels a tug in his chest and smiles. Stiles is returning the pull on their bond.  _ Stiles can feel him too _ .


	2. The Time Peter Doesn't Have To

Peter steps up onto the crumbling porch, letting the scent of decay permeate around him. The house creaks under his boots. Won’t be long now until the place collapses into a pile of burnt tinder and long-dead memories. It would match how he’s feeling better than this molding, skeletal home. 

 

It’s been so long since Peter has celebrated his birthday the recollections of what the pack used to do feels closer to dreams than real memories. While Talia didn’t much care for parties, her husband and right hand, Jamie, saw to it that every little thing became a pack event full of food and people--birthdays, long forgotten holidays around the moon cycle (that was a weird summer), losing a first tooth. All these nearly random, joyous occasions spent surrounded by pack left Peter feeling connected to all his loved ones and appreciated. He didn’t feel the need to skirt around the edges like pack meetings where he faced judgement over his less than savory orders followed out. His birthday used to be a fountain of love and warmth. 

 

The first one after he woke up from the coma, Peter was on edge. The loss of his family and pack was still so fresh, never having the opportunity to mourn and process it all. He didn’t want some facsimile of what life used to be--how happy it was and full of life. Thankfully, Derek’s never been the kind of guy to remember special dates, so the day passed without a single mention of its importance. 

 

Peter walks into his old home with careful steps, paying attention to the creaking and groaning of the wood with each one. The dining room still bares the hole he crawled out of, reborn. Maybe he should change his birthday from today to the day Lydia brought about his resurrection. Maybe then these memories would stop haunting him…He lets himself drift into the scene of Cora blowing out the candles on his cake before they had finished singing. 

 

“Peter?”

 

He jumps. How had someone managed to sneak up on him? Looking up, he finds Stiles stepping into the room. Peter can’t remember sitting down, but he’s cross-legged by the fireplace. Stiles’ usually chattering, string-chewing mouth turns downward. He wants to make some snappy remark and make Stiles leave him be. He doesn’t need anyone seeing him like this. Why is he even here? Before he can conjure up the words to make him go, Stiles bends down to kneel in front of him on the dusty, cracked floor.

 

Stiles lifts up a hand towards him, reaching out for something Peter can’t quite discern, clearly hesitant. A pang of guilt hits Peter. Of course he’s afraid after all he’s seen--after he knows what Peter is capable of. He looks away before Stiles can pinpoint the hurt in his eyes. Since their bond has formed, he hasn’t felt able to hide his emotions very well around him. 

 

He sucks in a breath when Stiles’ hands reach out to cup his face. He brushes away the streaks of tears on his cheeks with his thumbs. Peter’s brow furrows trying to remember when he’d started crying. He clears his throat and closes his eyes, unable to meet Stiles’ worried gaze. 

 

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Peter asks, his voice faint but sure. Maybe if he dealt with why Stiles is here quickly, he’d leave Peter alone to wallow. He doesn’t often indulge in it, but once he starts, he’s too overwhelmed to stop easily. 

 

“For being such a smart guy, you’re an idiot,” Stiles says. The words feel like a bite should come with them, but Peter’s taken aback by how softly he’s speaking--full of concern and maybe even caring. He internally berates himself. He’s emotional and letting himself hope. 

 

Hope has never done him any good. Peter clenches his jaw for a second and Stiles’ hands pull away from a millisecond. 

 

“You think insulting a werewolf while you have your hands on him is a good idea and you’re calling me the idiot,” he scoffs. He means the words to come out harsh, but all the fight in him seems to have left as quickly as it came. He wants to push Stiles away, but instead his body betrays him, rebelling by leaning into his touch. The whiplash leaves him confused and feeling even more vulnerable. 

 

Stiles leans forward until their foreheads press together. Breathing in the same air feels more electrifying than the first time he’d reached out to touch Peter without any teasing or prompting. The energy seems to pulse through their bond too; the whispering flickers against his heart make Peter finally open his eyes. 

 

He takes in the long fan of Stiles’ eyelashes caressing the top of his cheeks. His eyes flutter open, feeling Peter’s eyes on him and breathes out a little laugh, smiling itching to form. Peter can smell the worry coming off of him. 

 

“You’re an idiot because you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” Stiles whispers. The air of his words waft over Peter’s lips. His tongue darts out to taste them, pulling Stiles’ eyes toward the motion. “If there’s any day you deserve someone caring for you, it’s your birthday.”

 

“How do you--”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I have your file, dumbass. Besides, that kind of an important thing to know about the guy your into.”

 

Peter finally moves his hands from their place in his lap, one taking hold of Stiles’ hip and the other snaking up his body until firmly gripping around the back of his neck. Stiles’ sudders in his grip and leans into him. They both pull closer until Peter’s face tucks into the crook of Stiles’ jugular. He takes in Stiles scent--the smell of books and herbs and energy and  _ pack _ . 

 

He keens as Stiles’ long fingers work into his hair and massage his scalp. “Let’s get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading <3  
>  _please let me know what you think!_

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://bialiencowboy.tumblr.com/)


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